


The Full Medical

by Bottlegreen



Series: The Full Medical [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Humiliation, Humor, M/M, Medical Kink, Mycroft's plump round bottom, Prostate Massage, Spanking, Top John Watson, and very small briefs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottlegreen/pseuds/Bottlegreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes difficult patients need a little extra encouragement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Full Medical

“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Marion,” says Mycroft as he bustles through the surgery door, juggling umbrella, briefcase and mobile phone, “last minute flight to Kyrgyzstan and they will not allow me on the plane without a medical certificate.” He pauses as he sees the white-coated man sitting at the desk waiting for him. “Ah.”

“Afternoon,” says the man looking up from his laptop.

“You’re not Marion,” says Mycroft.

“No,” agrees the man, “no, I’m not. John Watson. Duty GP. Doctor Clarke’s off sick.”

“Physician, heal thyself,” says Mycroft. He shakes the proffered hand thoughtfully, as though assessing its owner through the state of his cuticles. “Mycroft Holmes. Are you new?”

“Locum,” says John. “Don’t worry,” he adds at Mycroft’s raised eyebrow. “I’m security cleared, the Ministry wouldn’t employ me otherwise.”

“Ex-army.”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well this should be very quick. You simply need to sign me off as fit to fly and-”

“Yes, right,” says John, he turns to a thick manila file lying on his desk. “Just need to ask you a few questions first. Take a seat.”

Mycroft sits, a little reluctantly, rests his hands on top of his umbrella and waits with ill-concealed impatience.

“How’s you general health?”

“Fine.”

“Good.” John types into the laptop. “And you’re sleeping all right?”

“Yes.”

“Getting enough exercise?”

“Oh yes,” says Mycroft smoothly. “So very important to one’s general wellbeing.”

“Decent diet?”

“I try.”

“Drink alcohol?”

“Very rarely.”

“Smoke?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen in shock at the very thought. “Oh no, never.”

“Right,” says John. He glances at Mycroft, sprucely turned out but rather wan, then returns to the file. “It’s been over three years since your last medical,” he observes.

“How time flies. Still-”

“Ministry rules are you have them every three months.”

“Doctor Clarke knows me well enough to understand that isn’t really necessary.”

“That’s nice,” says John. “But I don’t I’m afraid, so I really ought to check you out before I sign you off. Don’t want you having a cardiac arrest somewhere over the Urals. Ha-ha.”

“Ha-ha,” echoes Mycroft politely. He consults his pocket watch. “And what will that entail?”

“The full medical. The usual checks.”

“Yes?” says Mycroft.

“Height, weight, heart, lungs, blood pressure, medical history. That kind of thing. Won’t take more than an hour.”

“I see,” says Mycroft. “Well, I suppose if we must?”

He gives the last word an interrogatory note but John, deaf to the subtleties of civil service speech, simply nods and takes a stethoscope from the desk drawer. “Jacket off, please.”

And so over the next twenty minutes, Mycroft is prodded and poked, his height and weight measured, his heart and lungs auscultated, his abdomen palpated, his reflexes tested, his blood pressure, temperature and heart rate recorded and the colour of his tongue, sclera and nail beds assessed. By the end of it he looks somewhat harried and his doctor’s previously open, frank expression has become rather stern.

“Right,” he says as Mycroft sits back in his chair. “How often would you say you exercise?”

”Oh, as often as I can.”

“Well,” says John, “the good news is you’re within the correct weight range for your height.”

Mycroft permits himself a complacent smile.

“The bad news is practically everything else. Your liver’s fatty, your blood pressure is high, your lung function is poor, your reflexes are weak and I’ve never seen that colour tongue on a non-smoker before.”

The smile fades.

John leans back in his seat. “Is anything you’ve told me about your diet and exercise regime actually true, Mr Holmes?”

“Naturally,” says Mycroft with dignity. “Otherwise how would I maintain my weight?”

“Let me guess,” says John. “Cup of tea and a cigarette for breakfast, menthol though, so that’s all right,” his sarcasm is palpable, “diet coke and an apple for lunch. Five course banquet followed by cigars and brandy for dinner, then three hours sleep and up at six to do it all over again. Am I right?”

Mycroft’s silence is admission enough.

“And the only exercise you get is the walk from passport control to the departure gates and even then you use the travellator.”

“I walk to and from the office,” says Mycroft, stung.

“Brisk walk is it?” says John. “Moderate intensity exercise? Finish it out of breath and feeling warm?”

Silence once more, but a faint flush has appeared on Mycroft’s cheekbones. Apparently he finds the thought of such exertion deeply unpleasant. Or perhaps it’s John’s reproving tone he objects to.

“From your notes, you’ve been acting like this since you were thirty,” John continues. “I think Doctor Clarke’s given up and I can’t say I blame her. Still you can’t keep on with it, you’ll be dead by sixty-five.”

“That,” says Mycroft, making no attempt to hide the ice in his voice, ”is my concern.”

“It is,” John admits. ”You’re an adult; you can make your own choices. What pisses me off is when you lie to me about them.” He taps the top of the file in emphasis.

“Are you going to sign me fit or not?”

John purses his lips at the unrepentant tone. “Did you bring your kit?”

“Kit?”

“Sports kit.”

“I’m afraid,” says Mycroft, “I don’t own any ‘kit’.”

“Then how are you going to do the physical?”

“What physical?”

“I have to check your vital signs before and after exercise to sign you off.”

“Exercise?” Mycroft looks around the room, as though seeing it for the first time. In addition to the standard examination table and privacy screen, scales and stadiometer, advisory posters and leaflets, a selection of cardiovascular equipment lurks against one wall. A flicker of distaste crosses his face. “John,” his smile is a little strained, “I may call you John?”

“You can call me Doctor Watson,” says John. He’s not smiling.

“Doctor Watson," Mycroft begins again. “Is this really necessary? I merely wish to fly, not run a marathon on my arrival.”

“Looking at your vital signs, in my medical opinion, yes it is.”

“I see,” Mycroft considers. “And are there other doctors...?”

“By all means, there are other doctors. Come in tomorrow and you can get a second opinion.”

“My flight is at five.”

“Then there are no other doctors.”

“But I have no…kit.”

“You can do it in your suit, if you like: fifteen minutes on the treadmill to start off, then fifteen more on another machine.”

Mycroft looks down at his suit a little ruefully. A grey twill with a subtle sheen, light weight – perfect for the dry air of Kyrgyzstan. “You have nothing I could borrow?”

“No I haven’t, seeing as it’s standard protocol for the Ministry medical to include a thirty minute work out. Which you would know, had you ever bothered to attend one.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “Do you know who I am, doctor?” he enquires with a note of silky menace. “I am not some seventeen year old squaddie you can put on report because he has forgotten his PT kit."

“No, you’re a minor civil servant with inflated ideas of his own importance who’s wrongly convinced of his own immortality.”

“Ah,” says Mycroft, with sudden understanding.

“Public school, Oxbridge and straight into the diplomatic corps, I know the type,” John says, getting into his stride, “and be thankful you’re not one of my squaddies because if you were, I’d be making you do it in your pants.”

“In my pants?” Mycroft is too well-bred to look startled, but he cannot prevent a note of incredulity creeping into his voice.

“Yeah,” says John. “In fact…” he leaves his chair to rummage in a cupboard, “put that on,” he hands Mycroft a clear bag containing a folded disposable gown, “and you can do it in that.”

Mycroft looks at the bag in his hand.

“Or you can come back with the proper kit tomorrow instead,” John says, when he doesn’t move.

There’s a long, weighted pause, then without a word, Mycroft stands and stalks behind the privacy screen. After a moment a tie appears, looping over the top rail, quickly followed by his waistcoat and shirt. John watches for a moment then takes a long plastic ruler from a pot of stationery on his desk, taps it thoughtfully against his palm, and sticks it in his pocket.

When Mycroft emerges, barefoot, he looks more than a little put out. From the front it is not clear why - he’s perfectly modestly attired, the gown covering him from neck to knee. When he turns to step onto the treadmill however, the cause of his annoyance is clear. The back of the gown ties at the neck then gapes open below. Mycroft’s sleek three piece suits have been carefully tailored to conceal a round and generously-padded posterior, sitting atop two plump bare thighs. His underwear is a pair of sheer and rather small black briefs. Exposed to John’s stern, appraising gaze, this unusual sartorial choice tightly hugs his bottom, doing little to conceal a pair of well-fleshed buttocks.

“It’s programme one,” John says and sits watching as Mycroft begins to walk. The movement makes his patient’s thighs and bottom gyrate in a faintly hypnotic fashion. “Biomechanically speaking you’re pretty efficient,” he observes after a few minutes, with the air of one giving credit where it’s due.

Mycroft glances over his shoulder. His face is noticeably redder and sweat has dampened the hair at his temples. “It seems rather fast.”

“Ten minute kilometres?” says John. He checks the speed. “Yes. Moderate walking pace; that shouldn’t be a problem for you.” As though in agreement, the treadmill beeps and the incline increases.

“I really think I’ve had enough,” says Mycroft as the pace picks up and the thin fabric covering his rear begins to struggle with the strain of containing his oscillating buttocks.

“Ten more minutes,” John says. His hand drops to touch the ruler.

“I have a stitch.”

“Breathe through your nose.”

Mycroft manages another ninety seconds, his feet slapping against the rubber of the treadmill belt, before he capitulates. “No,” he says. “No. That is  _enough_ ,” and hits the large red button in the centre of the console. The belt sighs to a halt and Mycroft staggers from it, wobbly-kneed.

“That’s all you can manage,” says John, “seven minutes? That’s really not very good, Mycroft.”

“It is all I feel capable of at this moment in time,” says Mycroft with considerable dignity, given his unconventional attire.

“You can still talk,” John retorts. “You’re not dying. How can I sign you off as fit to travel if you refuse to complete the physical?”

“Make something up.”

“Lie on your medical records?” John shakes his head. “You get back on there," he points with the ruler, “and finish off your fifteen minutes. Then we’ll talk about ‘making something up’.”

“No.”

“You refuse?” John says, voice deceptively mild.

“I refuse,” says Mycroft. “I am not one of your platoon, Doctor Watson, for you to order around at your whim.”

“No, you’re an overgrown public schoolboy who doesn’t know what’s good for him,” John considers his recalcitrant patient. “Well perhaps it's time someone provided you with an additional incentive, in a language you'll understand. Chest on the table please, legs shoulder-width apart."

Mycroft obeys, collapsing onto the examination table with a sigh of relief. The position hollows his back, throwing his round, fleshy cheeks into even more conspicuous prominence.

“Right," says John. He weighs the ruler in his hand. “If you’re going to behave like a naughty little boy then I’m going to treat you like a naughty little boy.” And without waiting for a response, he tugs the straining briefs higher up onto Mycroft’s haunches. The much abused material, stretched to capacity, disappears into the deep crevice that divides Mycroft’s cheeks, leaving his generously curved buttocks entirely exposed.

Mycroft does respond to _that_ with a shout of protest, but John’s firm grip on the back of his underwear leaves him in a rather awkward position and the strain of his recent workout reduces the effect of his struggles to a feeble flailing. John merely waits until he has exhausted himself then, with a stern eye and untiring arm, begins his lesson.

“Five portions of fruit and veg a day,” he chants, punctuating the words with methodical whacks of the ruler. “Say it.” And he continues the barrage until every centimetre of Mycroft’s broad buttocks are a fetching shade of pink while their owner writhes and yelps and eventually stammers out the words.

“Thirty minutes of exercise; five times a week,” continues John inexorably as the ruler rises and falls and Mycroft’s protests grow more shrill. “Say it.” The words are repeated, more hastily this time. The ruler is light but its flexibility gives each stroke a smarting sting.

“No more than twenty-one units of alcohol a week.” This stern exhortation is accompanied by a sequence of hard, measured slaps across the tender underside of Mycroft’s blushing cheeks, making his feet leave the floor as his legs scissor in protest. He squeaks out the words without further prompting.

“And. No. More. Bloody. Cigarettes.” A series of stinging rebukes to the top of each plump thigh. “Is. That. Clear?”

“Yes,” gasps Mycroft. “Quite clear! Thank you, Doctor Watson.”

“All right,” says John. He pauses for a moment to admire the vibrant pink of Mycroft’s backside then, visibly, gathers his thoughts. “Up onto the stepper with you, then. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Mycroft needs no further encouragement, almost galloping in his eagerness to be away from the instrument of his punishment. His heavy cheeks jostle and wobble beneath their skimpy covering as he steps with real vigour under the doctor’s sardonic eye. Whenever John senses he's slacking, he plies the ruler against the sensitive area where bottom meets thigh, helpfully exposed for his correction with every step. And so Mycroft climbs energetically for quarter of an hour, while his bottom wiggles and his thighs pump, straining with every fibre of his being to be out of range of John’s stern hand, but making very little headway at it.

Eventually, John relents, shepherding him first onto the treadmill then back to the examination table. Here Mycroft flops, thoroughly chastised, as John first takes his pulse then uprights him to check his blood pressure.

“Not as bad as I thought it might be,” he observes entering his findings onto the computer. “You must have good genes.”

Mycroft, lying prone once more, simply nods.

“How long’s the flight to Kyrgyzstan?”

“Eight hours,” says Mycroft, unmoving.

“Right,” John glances across the room to where Mycroft’s round posterior glows like a Belisha beacon. “Better put some ointment on that then, otherwise you’ll never be able to sit it out.”

The ointment is a vial of anti-inflammatory cream which John applies liberally across the wide expanse of Mycroft’s buttocks, his gloved hands cool and soothing on his patient's sore skin.

“You know,” he says, “a man of your age Mycroft, you need to take better care of yourself. You’re not a spring chicken anymore.” And he lectures on in a similar vein, smoothing the abundant flesh until Mycroft’s hisses of discomfort die away and the crimson has faded to a deep rose pink. “All right,” he says eventually and pats Mycroft, not unkindly, on the rump. “You’re fit to travel. Let me just finish the form.”

He strips away his gloves, returns to the computer and begins typing, frowning at the keyboard.

Mycroft, sprawled across the table, lies motionless. “Is there to be no internal exam?” he asks, a little plaintively, after the halting typing has gone on for some minutes.

The tapping stops. “Internal? You mean MRI?”

“I mean prostate,” says Mycroft. “Doctor Clarke said I should consider having regular checks.”

“Oh,” says John. “Did she?” He flicks through the manila file. “Well it’s not on the form, but we can if you like, while you’re here.”

“I think it would be best,” agrees Mycroft, not raising his head, “while I’m here.”

“All right,” says John, readily enough. “I’ll just do this.” He taps for a few minutes longer then goes to fetch some more gloves and a sachet of lubricant. “Underwear off, please.”

The black briefs drop to Mycroft’s ankles with a haste that is almost unseemly.

“It _is_ a little engorged,” John notes once his slick fingers have breached and entered his patient's pliant flesh. “Let’s see if I can just…” There’s silence for a few long moments as he massages and probes. Then, without warning, Mycroft’s legs kick convulsively and a series of shudders sends shivering ripples all across his chubby pink bottom. “All done,” says John calmly once they’ve faded away. If he’s aware anything untoward has happened, he gives no sign of it. ”No problems there. I’ll leave you to get dressed. The form will be at the front desk.”

He takes off his gloves, hangs up his coat and heads for the door. At the threshold he pauses. “I run a Well Man clinic every second Tuesday for the over forty-fives,” he says. “I want to see you back here next month, and I want to see a real improvement and if I don’t-”

“You’ll spank me,” says Mycroft, muffled.

“I’ll take you off the clinic list,” John corrects. “No point in spending time on patients who aren't going to make an effort.” And with that he shuts the door behind him.

For a few minutes longer Mycroft lies face down on the table, unmoving. Then the insistent trill of a phone from somewhere behind the privacy screen interrupts his reverie. He stands unhurriedly, pulls off the gown and, with a certain languid grace, goes to answer his mobile.

“All done,” he says. “Send the car when you’re ready...Marion wasn’t available so it took a little longer.” He listens. “Yes, so I heard…Oh? That does sound nasty. Have the office send her some flowers…Yes, a locum… No,” he laughs lightly, “not a clue.” He glances at his pink backside with a faint smile. “But very thorough. He wants me to attend a ‘Well Man’ clinic. Second Tuesdays.” He listens again. “Oh, I think it’s probably wise, don't you? Clear a space in my diary.”

 


End file.
